Mommy with a Penis

It was 89 degrees when I picked up my beautiful daughter on the last day of H2O camp at the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center.  I envied her her day; frolicking in cool waters while I whiled away my hours in a house with nonexistent air conditioning. I pulled up and saw my beautiful daughter sitting with her new friends on a grassy knoll eating an Otter Pop lookalike. It was the quintessential image of carefree summer life. Ah, to be a kid!!! She said her goodbyes, collected her stuff and buckled herself in the car. As we were leaving the Rose Bowl grounds Max rolled down her window, causing a backdraft of unwanted heat which interfered considerably with my much desired climate control. I looked back and noticed that the wrapper from the Otter Pop lookalike was gone. I slowed down the car and asked accusatorially, "Did you throw that out the window?" Maxwell gets very sheepish when she's caught in a no-no. She's mostly a very good girl. So, as she was babbling some sort of...

"Papa, where is the pink?" "What do you mean, darling?" "The pink crayon. There's no pink." "Here, let me look." And, indeed, as I burrow through a Ziploc full of crayons from all walks of life, I slowly come to the realization that there are no pink crayons. This is impossible. My children get refills of crayons regularly; those boxes of thirty-two or sixty-four, or the crappy packets of three given to us by restaurant hostesses. Doesn't matter their origin, they all go into the Ziploc, because crayon boxes under my children's gripping hands crumple and rip almost immediately, rendering them useless. "I have no idea where the pink is? Wait a minute, are you hording them?" "No, Papa. We're out of pink! We need more pink!!" "Okay, don't freak out. Papa, will get you some pink." But where did those crayons go? Are they off somewhere with the missing pair of house keys? Gallivanting with my Grumpy ba...

A cozy moment between my four year old daughter and my ex-drag queen husband. MAXIE: Daddy, do boys wear makeup? MICHAEL: Yes, some boys do. MAXIE: I bet that makes them feel fancy. MICHAEL: I bet it does. MAXIE: Daddy, I like fancy boys. MICHAEL: So do I, sweetheart. So do I.

Dear Store Owners and Kiosk Keepers, I have endured brightly wrapped candy, promising explosions of sugary goodness, awaiting me and my two tykes at every grocery checkout. After exiting the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, I have suffered dragging my kids through the Pirates of the Caribbean store overstocked with overly priced and cheaply made swords, hooks and buccaneer hats. I've even pulled my children screaming from displays of Fruit Roll-Ups, Chips Ahoy and Lays Potato Chips after gymnastics and swimming. (BTW, gymnastics and swimming, why at a place of fitness do you insist on hawking sugar and empty calories to kids? Paging Michelle Obama! ) Now, this by no means, is an old practice. When I was eight my family vacationed in Hawaii, and we were in some store and I was seduced by foil-wrapped glimmer and the promise of minty goodness in the form of Wrigley's Spearmint Gum. I begged my father to buy me a pack. Because for some reason, it was very important at that particul...

Mommy With a Penis is busily doing work in the bedroom when a three year old girl comes scurrying in. MAXIE: Papa, Papa! MOMMY WITH A PENIS: Yes darling? MAXIE: I want a regielusodlkeyoooo . MOMMY WITH A PENIS: What's that? MAXIE: You know. A gloeuuhdoeiuiii . Maxie sees that Mommy With a Penis is confused and tries to clarify. MAXIE: 'Abastian has a leourertgderfff . An I wan one too. MOMMY WITH A PENIS: Sebastian has something and you want one too. Maxie nods, thrilled her meaning is understood. Mommy With a Penis stands. MOMMY WITH A PENIS: Well, let's go find out what a hibbideyhoobey is. Maxie and Mommy With a Penis go into the backyard, where they find a seven year old boy in the throes of some pretend game. Mommy With a Penis turns to Maxie incredulously. MOMMY WITH A PENIS: Is this what you wanted? A cigarette? Maxie nods with enthusiasm. Mommy With a Penis quickly switches focus back to Sebastian, and finds that there are no words. A huge shit eating grin spreads ...

We've done it before and it leaves the kids mystified. When we travel during Easter, we get the Cadbury eggs, the Peeps, the chocolate bunnies and the other goodies ahead of time. Then, we fix up the baskets and hand them over to the hotel's front desk. The rules are simple: leave the baskets outside our door at eight am, knock loudly and then quickly disappear. It's very much like ding dong ditch, except in this version we end up with a couple of surprises waiting on our doorstep. Sebastian and Maxie love Easter. For them, there is no no religious connotation. No Crucifixion. No Resurrection. No blood of the lamb. It's simply, baskets, egg hunts and sweets. This year their baskets were sent by my step mother, Deanna. They were plush and in the shapes of a pink bunny and a white ducky. They came the week before in the mail and I wasn't sure how to explain them to the kids, because up to now the Easter Bunny had supplied the baskets. But Sebastian informed...

If you've been following Mommy With a Penis, you've heard about my daughter's closet of princess costumes, from tiaras to matching shoes. You've also heard that my son sometimes likes to dress in his sister's things. Well, to support both these themes I dug up this photo from last Halloween... Sometimes we just have to face the fact that mermaids are huge. When I was a kid, long before the Disney film, I'm a little ashamed to admit that my favorite story was The Little Mermaid . (Didn't everyone have a Hans Christian Anderson anthology?) Granted in that version she was blond and not a plucky redhead, and I don't remember her having a moniker of any sort. She was just a mermaid looking for love: long suffering, pretty and silent. And she had a brassiere made of seashells. What future gay boy wouldn't be enamored. Michael took Maxie to Target to find her Halloween costume and without qualm she chose Ariel. I was amazed at how quickly she made her choi...

The heinous dress kept calling to me. And like a traffic accident, I couldn't stop from sneaking peaks. It was a pink on pink confection, bubblegum on top with matching bows on a fuchsia ballerina skirt. Oh, and did I mention Hello Kitty's puss emblazoned across the bodice? My teeth hurt just looking at it. I was standing in the checkout line at Macy's buying last minute Christmas gifts when the monstrosity caught my eye. My cynical inner voice couldn't help but query, "What poor Filipino sweat shop kid pieced together that dish rag?" But quashing the cynicism was another voice, one that was more powerful, more resonant, and I'm embarrassed to admit, surprising fey, "Maxie would love it!" Followed immediately by, "And I have a coupon!" I'm not sure which gave me the fortitude, the possibility of making my daughter deliriously happy or twenty-five percent off the already discounted price, but either way, I grabbed a 5T off the rack ...

I am up Shit Creek. No exag. I'm doing what everyone else is doing, running around in my little hampster wheel feeling as if I'm making headway, but in reality I'm in the same plastic habitat with wood chips strewn about. I mean, can it really be October? This week was picture week at my son's school. We always have to pack an extra shirt in his backpack, because invariably his pics are shot after lunch. I get his teeth brushed, my husband combs his hair. (But really, if his shots are after lunch, what's the point?) We tell him once again what to expect and with an air of professionalism he says, "Will they take only one picture or is this a photo shoot?" Well, excuse me, Miss Desmond. I didn't know you were so particular about your close up. Living pert near on top of Hollywood has been a concern. I don't want my kids to be Southern Californian cliches, acting as if they just stepped out of the movie Clueless . I don't want them all knowing...

Six weeks ago, my little family drove north on Interstate 5, hung a right at Highway 14 and drove into Antelope Valley. Sounds like a pretty place, doesn't it? Almost mystical. I would bet most of you, if you were to take out your own personal mental snapshot of California you would be looking at Rocky Mountains or the roiling Pacific, majestic redwoods or overpriced amusement parks. I'm sure none of you pictured Antelope Valley. Although it sounds like a lush savanna bounding with chipper quadrupeds, in fact, Antelope Valley has no antelopes. The poor creatures were obliterated by hunters in the 1880's, and replaced with prefab homes, out of date strip malls, alfalfa fields and the second largest Borax pit mine. Antelope Valley also has the distinction of being the crystal meth darling of the Mojave. This is where my daughter, Maxie, was born. (Interesting to note, the nurse in charge of Maxie's care for the first two days of her life, told us an increase of meth users...

I want to be a fireman. I want to drive a garbage truck. I want to be a vampire. My son has been making those kind of statements for years. They are always presented with infectious enthusiasm. Like many parents I feed into his desires, "that's nice dear," without thinking he will really end up fighting fires, collecting trash or sucking blood. Last Sunday, our good friends, Carol and Milo, invited us over to their house for potluck and a swim. Hubby was busy, but that did not deter me. I bundled up the kidlets and trundled on over with hot dogs, little cuties, pink lemonade and a bottle of chardonnay. Going to their house is always a pleasure. Not only do they have an eclectic, bubbly group of friends, but their home with the faintest whiff of oil and varnish is the epitome of an artist's idyll. Milo Reice is a wonderful painter and his vibrant multi media artwork adorn the walls. His works can be small celebrations of life, or they can be huge installation p...

The other day, my three year old daughter said, "Papa, I like your penis." Lately I've tried to be more gracious when receiving praise, but somehow saying thank you seemed entirely wrong. Likewise, returning the compliment, "And honey, I like your vagina," was completely out of the question. I'm doing my best not to read too much into this statement. Oh, who am I fooling? I'm trying not to freak the fuck out. But when I slow down and put it in perspective, I realize that yesterday she said, "I like your glasses," followed by "I like your big teeth." So very possibly she's in an I like phase. Even still, " I like boy " was only last month and her progression to "I like your penis" is alarming. We're pretty free and loose with nudity in our house. We toss off penis and vagina in the same blase manner as if we were saying nose or elbow. We want our children to feel comfortable with their bodies, and yet w...

Last Thursday was Maxie's birthday. I derive a sense of security from the day of my daughter's birth. Not only was she born on Father's Day, which becomes all the more significant when two fathers are involved, but she was also born on the same day as Isabella Rossellini , Carol Kane, Roger Ebert, Paul McCartney, E. G. Marshall, Jeanette MacDonald, William Randolph Hearst III, John D. Rockefeller IV and in the center square, Mr. Uday Hussein. You see, all these folks, along with my darling three year old were born on the Day of Financial Security. (Not that that helped Uday .) My sister, a while back, gave me one of those birthday coffee table books that has never lived on my coffee table. It's called The Secret Language of Birthdays , and in it the reader is given insightful information about " personology profiles" for each day of our calender year. Now, I couldn't tell you the special name for the day on which I was born. Nor could I tell you anything...

Last week, I assumed a conscientious, thoughtful wife demeanor. I entered the kitchen with purpose, but not to belittle nor cause defenses to arise. "Michael," I calmly started out, pleased with my nonthreatening tone, "We need to talk." He stopped what he was doing, looked me the eye, no computer screen, no iPhone in sight. All these years of programming have finally begun to pay off. "Yes," he said. His voice was strong, maybe a bit on the defensive, but able to listen. Good. "Look," I continued, "I have a slight suggestion. Now, I don't want you to respond right away. Let me say my piece and walk out of the room, think about it for a while, and we'll talk about it later." I came up with this system because neither one of us is good when cornered with a slight suggestion. And sometimes living with it, even for one day, takes the edge off. "I know how busy you are running the theatre. I am aware that theatre hours demand m...

For Fatherhood Friday, a little ditty about fathers and daughters... "Papa!" I was summoned. "Papa!" It was six forty and baby girl was about to make her morning pronouncement. "Papa!" "Coming." I lumbered out of bed wondering what she'd say today. It could be anything from I like bananas to Kitty cat is fuzzy. I remember when she said I want to do ballet and I thought, "Okay, kid, you're two, how the hell do you know about ballet?" The answer to that did not take too much sleuthing. Maxie is an Olivia freak. You know, the precocious piglet with a vivid imagination. Was a book, now a popular TV series on Nick Jr. I think there are only about twelve episodes and they practically run on a loop in our house. I can quote from it verbatim. In one episode, Olivia does ballet, and Maxie wanted to as well. The thing about these pronouncements, I'm one of those doting parents who will try to make it happen. Bananas, simple. But bal...